


Gonna Give You Something Better

by orphan_account



Series: yoi filth [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Katsuki Yuuri Wears Viktor's Jacket, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Everyone & their evil twin has done this:Yuuri wanks in a nest of Viktor's dirty laundry because of Reasons; Viktor walks in on him and -dick: hardclothes: offfucking: happens





	Gonna Give You Something Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alykapedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alykapedia/gifts).



> it is/was apparently the amazing alykapedia's birthday  
> and our tumblr convos alleviate the tedious boredom of work  
> so, happy birthday, komrad! working title for this was literally "bday dicking fic for alykapedia"  
> i could have been writing my reverse bang but this happened instead.
> 
> inspired by [this particular fanart](https://twitter.com/eringo_111/status/856808835801022465?s=09), though there are many like it. title is from 'Kiwi' - vintage Maroon 5.

He doesn’t really mean to — not at first. 

It starts with Viktor’s Team Russia jacket, of course; Viktor trains and sweats his cologne off in it, so it smells the strongest of him. Yuuri wraps himself in it, drowns in the heady scent of Viktor’s natural musk, swims in the sleeves, imagines that the soft fabric against his skin is Viktor’s arms against his own. 

But then it’s not quite enough, and Viktor’s absence yawns like a great gaping maw - dark, deep, bottomless, and with teeth sharp enough for Yuuri to cut himself on if he dwells too long on how far away Viktor is, halfway across the continent for sponsorship talks. Yuuri unhooks Viktor’s camel trench coat from the back of the front door, unwinds the matching scarf from the coat rack, swipes the thick, ribbed turtleneck from where Viktor’d left it on the sofa - he brings the spoils of his gathering into the bedroom, spills them over the wide, empty expanse of their bed. 

Rolling around in them is a little better, but Yuuri still _yearns_ , and it will be days yet 'til Viktor returns. He’s off, he knows, what with Viktor not being right there butting his silly head into Yuuri’s business, clinging to Yuuri like a limpet, smiling so bright at Yuuri from across the rink that he can see it even without glasses. Yuuri is distantly aware, of course, that this is not a healthy reaction, but he is hard pressed to care when Viktor’s voice catches over the phone, and Yuuri drifts to sleep in the little nest he’s made of Viktor’s clothes on their bed to the sound of Viktor breathing, laptop dark on the nightstand.

It all comes to a head when Yuuri decides to get some laundry done the evening before Viktor gets back; he’s been banished from both the rink and Lilia’s ballet studio after “excessive pining, seriously Yuuri, I’d have expected this from _Vitya_ ”. He’s kneeling in front of the laundry basket, sorting through the laundry, freshly showered and missing Viktor like a bone-deep ache. Yuuri is a creature of habit, and having to attend to his own feet after months of Viktor doing so made him almost tear up. 

So it’s when he reaches his arm all the way into the basket, rising up on his knees, and his fingers come into contact with the stretchy cotton blend of Viktor’s ubiquitously black practice shirts, that the bottom of Yuuri’s stomach drops out and co-mingled longing and desire pulse through him so strongly that his eyes close. _Entirely_ of their own volition, Yuuri’s fingers curl into the fabric and his hand, his arm drag it out of the basket and then — and oh, the shirt’s been pressed under layers and layers of both their clothes, soaking in Viktor’s scent. His traitorous hands have brought the shirt to his face, and Yuuri finds himself pressing his face into it, breathing it in, so it’s like he’s got his nose pressed into Viktor’s sternum, Viktor wrapped all around him. 

Yuuri doesn’t _let_ himself think, acts purely on the pulling need low in his gut as he sweeps up the coloured pile of Viktor’s clothes and stumbles into bed with them. They scatter around him, the fiery edge of the Viktor’s jacket flapping in his wake as he falls from his knees over onto his side. The jacket comes to rest over his hip, curling over his side. It’s so big on him, makes him feel warm and cocooned, makes _Viktor_ go crazy whenever he wears it. He hasn’t told Viktor at all, how Yuuri has been wearing it around the flat so much that it smells more of Yuuri than Viktor now. Yuuri props himself up on Viktor’s pillows so that he can press his head into one and his shoulder and back rest on the other, the way he and Viktor sometimes curl up so Viktor can fuck his dick in between Yuuri’s thighs on days before competition or practice. 

The memory of it makes Yuuri tremble all over, the hot heaviness between his legs spreading out, down his thighs and up his belly; he hasn’t even started touching himself yet. Viktor’s shirt is still in his hands but he is loathe to let go; his hips are already twitching back and forth, seeking something to grind on, stimulation from Viktor’s clever, magical hands. 

Sighing out his frustration, Yuuri skims a hand down the bare skin of his chest, imagining all the while that it’s Viktor: Viktor touching him, Viktor pressed flush against his back, Viktor’s fingers wet with saliva on his nipples, Viktor’s hand pressed over his mouth so that Yuuri can breathe him in, the thick, aroused scent of the both of them. His belly trembles when calloused fingers stroke over it, spreading over the still-soft layer of fat remaining under his belly button and moving inexorably down over the taut, damp cotton stretched over his dick.

Viktor would tease him here, Yuuri knows, slide two fingers over the outline of his dick in his underwear, so he does so, moaning a little when he can’t help himself and squeezes, losing the light touch Viktor usually uses, then rubbing his thumb over the flared head of his dick where the fabric is wettest. He presses his cheek further into the pillow, mouth dropping open and his deep moan turning himself on even more.

It would turn Viktor on, too, and Yuuri’s almost pulled out of his fantasy by the lack of Viktor’s soft, low moans in the room, the husky, throaty tones of Viktor’s dirty talk in his ears. Pushing his hand under his boxer briefs, Yuuri moans louder than his wont, trying to make up for the lack of noise in the room, as he wraps his fingers around himself and starts sliding the tight circle of them up and down, swiping over the head on every pass, gathering the sticky liquid there and slicking his way.

Viktor’s jacket is smooth over his back, brushing over his pubes with every movement of Yuuri’s arm, and the whole bed smells of his absent lover; Yuuri rolls onto his back, eyes firmly shut, Viktor’s shirt draping over his nose and mouth, and bucks up into his hand, gasping aloud when he imagines Viktor kneeling over him: the ravenous look on Viktor’s face, the heavy weight of his gaze. Desperately, Yuuri reaches overhead for the little bottle of lube left in the folds of the sheets the night before. The exposure, as always, gets to be too much, especially without Viktor actually there to drive Yuuri out of his head, and he curls up on his side again, biting down on Viktor’s shirt so he can reach his other hand behind himself. The smell of Viktor’s shirt in his nose and mouth is drugging, as he thrusts his hips into the wet, tight grasp of his hand, back into his hastily lubed fingers, losing himself in fantasies of Viktor fucking into him, rubbing his thumb torturously slow over slippery, sensitive skin, and when he wants Yuuri to come, dipping into the slit —

A crash jerks Yuuri out of the reverie, his eyes snapping open and heart rabbiting for entirely unsexy reasons.

“K-kotyenok,” Viktor stutters, looking unreal in the doorway, backlit by the yellow hallway lights so that his hair is a penumbra and his face thrown into shadow in the dim interior of their room.

Yuuri is suddenly extreme aware of the — the sight Viktor must be presented with: dirty clothes scattered over the bedroom floor, over their bed, and Yuuri right smack in the middle of it all, hands stuck down his underwear and, oh god, Viktor’s shirt pressed to his face. He is _such a pervert_. 

Face hot, he squeaks, “This isn’t what it looks like!” 

He might be protesting to an illusion, but this is important. 

Possibly-illusory Viktor blinks at him, the glint of his eyes in the dark disappearing and reappearing, and then he’s prowling towards Yuuri, peeling off his clothes in the world’s fastest and most compelling stripshow, if the way Yuuri’s dick jumps in his loosened grip is any indication. Blushing even harder, Yuuri whips his hands out of his underwear.

“Fuck,” Viktor sighs out, and the way the mattress dips under his weight belies the reality of his presence. Yuuri’s head is spinning. “You’re so —” his hand, cold from the outside, lands on Yuuri’s calf; Yuuri shivers. “Kotyenok, you’re in _my jacket_.”

Sprawling onto his back, Yuuri reaches out for Viktor, desperate. 

“I missed you,” he tells Viktor, and sighs contentedly when Viktor comes willingly into his arms, so that his skin is naked against Viktor’s, finally. “I just wanted to ... feel like you were holding me.” 

Viktor kisses him, then: open-mouthed, filthy, wet, and Yuuri moans into it, chasing Viktor’s tongue into his mouth, dragging his hands up the broad, beloved expanse of Viktor’s back to lock Viktor in. The grinding of their hips almost seems secondary to this intimacy, the desperate yearning in their kisses, the way they’re saying: I missed you, I missed you, I _missed_ you, and now you are here and I will steal the very breath from your lips and swallow you up so that you will never leave me again. 

But they have to part for breath eventually, and Viktor pants against the side of Yuuri’s face, before he laughs, dragging his shirt out from where it’d been caught between them. 

Yuuri pouts at him, brows furrowing.

“Ah, my Yuuri,” Viktor drops a sweet kiss on his lips and pulls away before Yuuri can deepen it. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just — funny. It makes me happy.”

Giving him a sceptical look, Yuuri asks, “You’re happy I’m a pervert?”

Viktor grinds against him so that Yuuri’s mouth drops open and his eyes blur a bit with tears. “We can be perverts together.”

While Yuuri is recovering and trying to stave off a crisis, Viktor scrambles up and leans over to retrieve the lube where it’s almost rolled off the side of their bed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuuri moans, can’t help but reach out to caress the strong, muscled lines of Viktor’s leg, stretched out behind him. “Please, Vitya.” 

Viktor comes back to him quickly, already snapping the bottle open. “I’m going to make you feel so good,” Viktor promises, eyes dark and heated. “I promise I’ll fuck you later, but first...” 

He kneels up over Yuuri, knees pressing Yuuri’s thighs, splayed, to the bed, and reaches behind himself. 

“Oh,” says Yuuri, dazedly. “I —” 

He gets a wicked grin in response, and Yuuri takes a deep breath together with Viktor, expelling it all in one go when Viktor’s mouth drops open and a flush rises to his pale cheeks. Yuuri curls up to tug at his thighs.

“Vitya, I want to see you, please.” 

He almost swallows his tongue when Viktor smoothly swings his legs and himself around so he’s face-to-dick with Yuuri, and Yuuri can see the way Viktor’s fingers disappear into himself, the glistening trail of lube sliding down the inside of Viktor’s thigh, the wet mess he’s already made around his hole. Yuuri’s dick twitches hard in the confines of his underwear, the pressure of it his only saving grace. 

The long, elegant fingers slide out, and Viktor’s mouth descends hot over Yuuri’s bulge. Viktor fits another finger into himself, his hole stretching obscenely, and his tongue presses firmly against Yuuri, who whimpers and bites his lip.

“No.” Yuuri can feel the words being shaped around and over his straining dick. “Kotyenok, let me hear you.”

So Yuuri lets the whimpers out, lets the room and time blur by as his world narrows down to the hot, wet suction of Viktor’s mouth through the cotton barrier of his underwear, and the hypnotising thrust of Viktor’s fingers in himself.

“Vitya,” he gasps, the pleasure cresting in his gut. “Vitya, I need you — now, p-please.” 

And Yuuri is normally polite, but in this case he drags Viktor back, sucks a bruise into Viktor’s hip and luxuriates in the shaky groan that Viktor lets out as he clutches at the bedclothes - with both hands. 

“I need to,” Viktor tugs himself free and turns to face Yuuri, reaching down to pull Yuuri out of his underwear. “I want to ride you, darling.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuuri begs. “Please, anything, just —” 

Viktor sinks down onto him: he’s tight, so tight and so incendiary, and Yuuri’s dick _throbs_ at the slick clutch of Viktor around him. 

Viktor pushes Yuuri all the way down onto the bed as he bottoms out, keeps the light pressure of his hand on Yuuri’s chest.

They both stop, adjusting, before Viktor _moves_. 

"You're so perfect," Viktor gasps as he bounces on Yuuri's dick. "Fuck, darling, you feel so good in me."

Yuuri whines, head flung back, fingers clenched around the metal filigree of the headboard, the air cold on his skin in counterpoint to the heat of Viktor around him heightening his sensitivity, driving him closer to the edge. 

His hips buck; Viktor slows down, bears down with his full weight.

"No, let me - for you,” pants Viktor, grinding his hips in slow, torturous circles. 

Yuuri wants to cry; he wants to come so badly.

"Okay," Yuuri gasps. "Bu- _ah_ -t, Vitya, k-kiss me?" 

They end up sharing air more than kissing, moaning into each other’s mouths as Viktor pulls the orgasm out of Yuuri with the clench of his ass and the slow grind of his hips. Yuuri can’t help the way his hips stutter into Viktor, at the end, his grip around the back of Viktor’s neck and his ass tightening. Viktor’s moans are dark and heady, and make Yuuri roll his hips harder as he empties himself into Viktor. 

“Ah,” Viktor gasps. “Ah, Yu-u-ri, fuck.” His dick is fiercely hard between the two of them; the red, bulbous head is slick and Yuuri swears he can see the vein running down the underside of it pulsing, even with his terrible eyesight. His mouth waters; he wants it in him, wants to ride Viktor the way Viktor rode him, have Viktor bear him down onto the shameful nest of dirty laundry and plough into him. 

But Viktor doesn’t seem to be satisfied; he’s still sitting on Yuuri’s dick, clenching rhythmically with his eyes at half mast. 

“Vit _ya_ ,” Yuuri protests, over-sensitive. “My turn.” 

“Mmm,” Viktor grinds down on Yuuri, once more for the cheap seats, before tucking his toes under and easing off Yuuri; they both make a face at the sensation. “Ah, how do you want it, love?” 

The question steals the breath from Yuuri; he wants _so much_ , but mostly — “You in me.”

Viktor laughs, and happiness fizzes over light and weightless in Yuuri’s belly.

“I can do that,” Viktor says, and slides his hands up the undersides of Yuuri’s thighs towards his knees, dragging Yuuri’s underwear off at the same time. Yuuri helps, drawing his knees one by one back to his chest so Viktor can pull it off over his feet , and resettle his feet over Viktor’s shoulders. “Are you —?”

He presses two fingers to Yuuri; Yuuri feels himself giving way easily, exhaling as Viktor’s fingers are drawn in. Viktor’s longer but less wide around than Yuuri; his dick is built to tease, with a tortuously wide head and a curve that’s made for hitting all the spots that light Yuuri up from the inside. 

“Vitya, _I want_ ,” he whines, as Viktor fucks his fingers in and out of Yuuri thoughtfully. 

“A little more lube, I think,” is what Viktor says instead, and _withdraws his fingers altogether_. Yuuri beats his heels against Viktor’s back, and gets a laugh for his efforts. “Anal tearing’s no fun, darling.”

Yuuri makes a face. “Don’t talk about that _now_.” 

“It’s important.” Viktor slides his fingers, cold and wet, back into Yuuri, and sets about warming them up in Yuuri, making Yuuri lose his words - his train of thought - his tenuous grasp on reality. 

He feels punch-drunk, floaty in his skin, when Viktor finally sits up and takes him, his dick stretching Yuuri’s rim deliciously before sliding right in to nestle up just right, glancing over his prostate and sending shocks shivering under Yuuri’s skin; Yuuri’s getting fucked deep and hard, Viktor withdrawing almost to the tip and slamming back in on almost every stroke, so that Yuuri gets that toe-curling stretch and the satisfying ache of being done just right. He moans this to Viktor, words slurring out of his slack mouth, and Viktor’s thrusts get harder in response; he’s almost non-verbal, groaning out shivery “mine”s and “missed this” and, in one last coherent burst, “gonna make sure you don’t forget,” before his dick swells in Yuuri and he pulses hot and wet in him. 

Viktor fucks Yuuri through that one, long orgasm, losing rhythm and coordination as he desperately tries to bring Yuuri over the edge with him again. Yuuri reaches down between them, relishing the rough slide of Viktor in and out of him still, and starts jerking himself roughly off. Viktor has stilled in him, twitching, and his mouth is sealed hot over Yuuri’s throat when pleasure sweeps suddenly out over Yuuri like a riptide, entirely different from his first orgasm; his dick jerks and he feels his insides clench down hard, drawing out a guttural groan from Viktor. 

Yuuri sinks further into blissful lassitude, barely noticing when Viktor rearranges him on the bed, stripping him of the jacket, wiping the cooling sweat and come off him with a random shirt and tucking them both under the covers. 

It is only in the cool light of the morning that Yuuri will wake up and immediately go hot all over, when he notices the wreckage of their bed and the dirty laundry strewn all over, Viktor smug and glowing with it next to him. They will end up spending the whole of the next day on laundry, and Yuuri will feel badly about getting come on Viktor’s team jacket, before making up for it on his knees in front of the juddering laundry machine. 

But that, as they say, is a story for another day.


End file.
